Znegative lives at home, and watches episode after episode of Rescue Me, starring Dennis Leary. He has already blown through BattleSar Gallactica, the first four seasons of Breaking Bad, the first three seasons of Sons Of Anarchy, and shamefully endured one and a half seasons of Jericho.
He finds peace in front of the television, living out the lives of brave protagonists, fighting for freedome, fighting for love.
He plays with his new kitten, a female orange tabby who behaves rather mischeviously. He throws ping pong balls up and down the stairs, which the kitten chases, over and over again. He marvels at her curiosity, and her simplicity. Oh, to be a cat.
He takes long walks along eighth avenue in Brooklyn, smoking shitty rolled fags because he can't afford Newports any longer, as a pack of cigarettes has now surpassed the price of heroin in New York City.
His mind has grown sharp, his skills are improved. He studies the passengers on the F-train, watching every wrinkle, every twitch in their leathery mugs. he feels a tightness in his chest as he makes eye contact with the subject he's been drawing.
As he walks past Crunch on 23rd street, he sees men and women with tight, shapely bodies pass in and out through large glass doors, typing away at their blackberries and their iPhones. He spits on their butts, and experiences a surge of adrenaline rush through him, like a shot of coke. He feels disgust and contempt for them, but he also feels jealous.
Znegative longs for a slick apartment in midtown, living in the sixth avenue Hilton around 54th st seems satisfying enough.
He dreams of wearing a suit and a tie, working for some corrupt add agency down in soho. During the days he'd work from the newest mac desktop computer, complaining to his coworkers of the immorality of the business They would laugh nervously, amd bum ciggarettes from him. During his nights he'd take home highly educated graphic designers, cynical women who would entertain his every fantasy, calling him pathetic, possibly even calling him a faggot. And he'd pretend to get angry, but it'd all be for show.
In the bathroom of his agency, Znegative would inject the hippest, trendiest, up to date designer drugs. His colleagues would be shocked by his depravity, but filled with awe towards his exceptional ability to preform. To get the job done.
And then Znegative would take a trip, leave the city, and head for New Mexico. He'd stay at a nice hotel he'd find on priceline, and sober up, watching reruns of In Treatment on HBO, part of the packaged deal, no doubt.
He'd walk up and down the steep streets, and admire the adobe buildings. He'd stare out at the bare landscape, the mountains hovering above the clouds. He'd feel complete, transcending his earthly desires, drifting slowly up into the sky.
He'd shoot through earth's thinning atmosphere, past the milky way and thousands of stars, gravitating towards some gigantic black hole.
His rotation would becoming smaller and smaller, until he'd he be sucked in. His atoms separated, his mind obliterated. And all that would be left would be an ever more distorted image of what he was, until that to, became unrecognizable.
He finds peace in front of the television, living out the lives of brave protagonists, fighting for freedome, fighting for love.
He plays with his new kitten, a female orange tabby who behaves rather mischeviously. He throws ping pong balls up and down the stairs, which the kitten chases, over and over again. He marvels at her curiosity, and her simplicity. Oh, to be a cat.
He takes long walks along eighth avenue in Brooklyn, smoking shitty rolled fags because he can't afford Newports any longer, as a pack of cigarettes has now surpassed the price of heroin in New York City.
His mind has grown sharp, his skills are improved. He studies the passengers on the F-train, watching every wrinkle, every twitch in their leathery mugs. he feels a tightness in his chest as he makes eye contact with the subject he's been drawing.
As he walks past Crunch on 23rd street, he sees men and women with tight, shapely bodies pass in and out through large glass doors, typing away at their blackberries and their iPhones. He spits on their butts, and experiences a surge of adrenaline rush through him, like a shot of coke. He feels disgust and contempt for them, but he also feels jealous.
Znegative longs for a slick apartment in midtown, living in the sixth avenue Hilton around 54th st seems satisfying enough.
He dreams of wearing a suit and a tie, working for some corrupt add agency down in soho. During the days he'd work from the newest mac desktop computer, complaining to his coworkers of the immorality of the business They would laugh nervously, amd bum ciggarettes from him. During his nights he'd take home highly educated graphic designers, cynical women who would entertain his every fantasy, calling him pathetic, possibly even calling him a faggot. And he'd pretend to get angry, but it'd all be for show.
In the bathroom of his agency, Znegative would inject the hippest, trendiest, up to date designer drugs. His colleagues would be shocked by his depravity, but filled with awe towards his exceptional ability to preform. To get the job done.
And then Znegative would take a trip, leave the city, and head for New Mexico. He'd stay at a nice hotel he'd find on priceline, and sober up, watching reruns of In Treatment on HBO, part of the packaged deal, no doubt.
He'd walk up and down the steep streets, and admire the adobe buildings. He'd stare out at the bare landscape, the mountains hovering above the clouds. He'd feel complete, transcending his earthly desires, drifting slowly up into the sky.
He'd shoot through earth's thinning atmosphere, past the milky way and thousands of stars, gravitating towards some gigantic black hole.
His rotation would becoming smaller and smaller, until he'd he be sucked in. His atoms separated, his mind obliterated. And all that would be left would be an ever more distorted image of what he was, until that to, became unrecognizable.
